


Love Bites and Liquid Courage

by timehopper



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drunken Kissing, Drunken Shenanigans, Love Bites, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-10 21:43:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11135262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timehopper/pseuds/timehopper
Summary: McCree should not show up at his door in a drunken haze this often; and yet every time he does, Hanzo lets him in.





	Love Bites and Liquid Courage

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this twitter thread](https://twitter.com/minghzi/status/869295801851408384) from [@minghzi](https://twitter.com/minghzi). Saw it and was immediately inspired, so, uh. heheh. Here ya go!

The first time it happens, Hanzo is just settling in for the night.

Someone bangs at his door. It is not the gentle knock-knock-knock of someone checking up on him or looking to ask a favour (and who would be, at this hour?), but actual fist-to-wall banging and yelling to “open up already, goddammit!”

Hanzo glares at the door as if that alone will make the banging stop, but when it doesn’t, he reluctantly goes to tell off whoever it is. The argument is already forming on his tongue by the time the door slides open, but he’s very nearly shoved aside as a body barges right past him and into his room.

“McCree?”

“About goddamn time! How’s a man s’posed t’get any shut-eye around here if… Hey, Hanzo, what’re y’doin’ in my room?”

All belligerence dies on Hanzo’s tongue as he gapes at the man in absolute shock. “Your room? This is my room.”

McCree ignores him completely. He is looking around like he has no idea where he is, and if the way the scent of alcohol radiates off him is any indication, he doesn’t. So Hanzo just comes over to him, takes him by the shoulders (ignoring the small jolt that shoots through him at the contact) and steers him toward the bed.

“Hey, Han, what’re you—“

“You are drunk, McCree. Go to bed.” 

He laughs weakly, as if just remembering that was the whole reason he was here in the first place. “Oh, right. Heh. Sure.” He lies down when Hanzo pushes him onto the bed. Miraculously, he somehow manages to pull the sheets aside and get under them on his own. His eyes close and Hanzo breathes a sigh of relief, certain this will be the end of it. He’s just beginning to think about where he might sleep for the night when a metal hand reaches out to grab his wrist and pull him back onto the bed.

“What—McCree!” His face twists in a frustrated snarl as he tries to get out of the cowboy’s grip, but half-asleep and drunk out of his mind, somehow the cowboy manages to get a hand around Hanzo’s middle and pull him close. He has a near death-grip (which would be impressive if it wasn’t so irritating right now) and Hanzo knows that this is it; he won’t be able to get away. So with a sigh of resignation and a warm stirring in the pit of his stomach, he manages to squirm under the covers and let McCree hold him.

He falls asleep remarkably quickly.

\----

Hanzo wakes early. McCree had let him go sometime in the night and now rests with his head on Hanzo’s chest. Hanzo hopes the rapid pounding of his heart isn’t enough to wake the cowboy, but the minutes tick by, and McCree is still snoring. There’s a small line of drool at the corner of his mouth. Hanzo can feel a little of it on his chest. It’s gross, and he has to keep reminding himself of that as he reaches over to brush McCree’s bangs out of his face, as he relaxes into the warmth above him.

It takes every ounce of self-control he has, but Hanzo slips out of bed, showers, and leaves his room long before McCree wakes up.

\----

The second time comes as a surprise. 

Hanzo had thought McCree forgetting his room was on the other side of the Watchpoint would be a one-time occurrence, and yet here he is, bottle in one hand, other holding the doorframe to keep him upright. 

“Hanzo!” His smile is wide, like he is genuinely happy to see the archer. Hanzo scowls in return. “Fancy seein’ you here. Forgot the code t’my own room again, can ya believe it? Glad y’re here t’help. Heh. Again.” 

Hanzo’s glare is seething, but he steps aside and lets McCree in anyway. “At your service,” he grumbles. There’s no point trying to convince McCree he’s come to the wrong room again; he’s just as drunk as he was last time this happened. At least this time, McCree makes his way to the bed himself. Hanzo follows just to make sure the cowboy doesn’t fall or break anything (or so he tells himself), and sure enough, just like last time, McCree pulls him into the bed. This time Hanzo doesn’t fight it. He settles against McCree, back to chest, and closes his eyes, trying to will fluttering in his stomach to subside.

The arms around him hold him close. Hanzo curls into them and after a few moments he finally dares to put his hands over McCree’s, only once he’s certain the cowboy has long since fallen asleep.

\----

The third time, McCree at least has the decency to strip before getting into bed.

There’s no point fighting it, so when he hears the banging on his door again, Hanzo immediately opens it and lets McCree inside. Instead of helping him to bed this time, however, he just goes straight to the bed himself and gets comfortable. 

“We gotta stop runnin’ int’ each other like this,” the cowboy jokes. “How d’ya keep gettin’ in here, anyway?”

“This is my room.” 

“Guess it don’t matter none if y’keep lettin’ me in.” He doesn’t even acknowledge that Hanzo spoke. He just wanders around the room aimlessly a few minutes before kicking his boots off. The noise makes Hanzo look over, and when he does, his jaw drops. 

McCree tosses his serape to the ground. Underneath it is a simple t-shirt, which he’s currently pulling up over his head, revealing first a trail of hair leading to the waistband of his jeans, then a dusting of hair over his chest. Hanzo’s mouth waters as the shirt comes up over McCree’s head, exposing him completely and messing up his hair, leaving it wonderfully mussed and sticking up at odd angles in a few places. Next come the jeans, button popping open and –

Hanzo has to look away. He lies down in bed and turns to face the wall, fighting so, so hard not to turn back and watch McCree strip out of his pants and toss them on the floor. The sound of rustling fabric alone is enough to get his imagination going and stir something within him he would really rather not acknowledge when McCree is so hammered. 

He takes slow breaths to calm himself and hopefully even out the stuttering of his heart when the mattress dips beneath him and the sheets brush over his skin, momentarily exposing him, until the cool air is replaced by warm skin. McCree grunts as he settles in, and Hanzo wonders for a moment if maybe because he’s already in bed, he won’t be grabbed and used as some sort of human teddy bear tonight. Right now, he has no idea if he would prefer that or not. But he is not left to wonder long, as McCree wraps arms around him tightly and curls around the archer, nuzzling into the base of Hanzo’s neck and breathing in deeply.

“Mmh… Warm…”

Hanzo swallows thickly. He is not a modest man by any means, and he does not care that McCree has seen him in this state of undress before, but he has never once, before tonight, been so painfully aware of sleeping in nothing but his boxers. He can feel everything: the way heat radiates off McCree, the hairs on McCree’s chest tickling his back, the slight stickiness of skin that comes with the beginning or end of sweating. 

His breathing shakes slightly as he raises one hand to reach behind himself and thread in McCree’s hair. He doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he feels the tangles strands between his fingers. “Go to sleep, McCree.” He barely hears himself speak, his voice is so quiet. But McCree makes a noise and Hanzo can feel him nod against his neck, and that is the last thing McCree does before his breathing slows and evens out.

Hanzo’s hand clenches in McCree’s hair before pulling away and falling over his face. He’s so completely fucked. 

\----

That morning Hanzo showers with the memory of McCree’s skin against his own still fresh in his mind. He leans against the wall and tries to relieve himself of the pent-up frustration and arousal of the previous night, the whole time wishing it was McCree’s hands on him instead and that the cool tile of the wall was the warm, firm flesh and muscle that he had been held to all night.

\----

It happens twice more before Hanzo finally gets the courage to turn and face McCree as he sleeps. 

It happens by accident, really. He and McCree are already in bed, just like every other time he’s barged in drunk out of his mind. The cowboy has stripped down to his underwear and is cuddled up against Hanzo’s back, holding him tightly in the circle of his arms. He’s unusually touchy this evening, nuzzling into the space between Hanzo’s shoulder blades and rubbing his hands where they meet Hanzo’s beneath the sheets. The contact is driving him crazy, every shift against his skin like electricity, pulsing inward and throughout his body. He is painfully aware of the way McCree is curled around him, crotch pressed up against his ass and legs so tightly wound around him he can’t shift away.

He can’t take it anymore. He has to get away from him. The stirring in his gut and in his groin is too painful now to ignore, and if he doesn’t get away now, Hanzo knows he’s going to do something he’ll regret. So without thinking, he turns in McCree’s arms (with no small amount of difficulty) to tell him off, and – 

And promptly freezes, the breath leaving him.

McCree’s eyes are open, but just barely. His pupils are blown wide, either from drink or the low light in the room or from how tired he is, Hanzo cannot tell. His face is flushed dark as he stares at Hanzo, gaze more intense than it has any right to be despite how hazy and distant it is. Hanzo wants nothing more than to reach out right now, touch his face, pull him in close and kiss the breath out of him.

Instead, he stares.

“There… finally…” There’s no time to process the cowboy’s words, as no sooner are they said than McCree’s eyes close and he leans forward, burying his face in Hanzo’s neck. Warm breath flows over the skin. Hanzo can feel the barest graze of nearly-chapped lips crawling over him, and then all coherent thought stops as they press down just above his collarbone. Lips part so teeth can sink in. It is not painful – far from it – and when McCree starts sucking, Hanzo is helpless to stop the moan that readily spills from his throat. He feels more than hears McCree’s low chuckle rumble against him.

He pulls away with one last light suck, then moves to another spot nearby and starts to suck another bruise onto Hanzo’s neck. Hanzo gasps for breath, hands finding McCree’s arms and squeezing, not sure if he’s trying to pry the cowboy off or hold him in place, because as much as his mind screams at him to stop this, put an end to it before they both do something they’ll regret in the morning (if McCree even remembers – a thought that sends a jolt of pain through him), he wants this. Wants it to last, wants it to be more, wants it to mean something even though he knows it will never be more than a drunken mistake. 

One hand comes to thread through unkempt brown hair. “McCree…”

“’S Jesse.” McCree’s voice is barely audible, the words barely distinguishable from the slurring and the way they’re said into his shoulder. But gods if they don’t affect Hanzo all the same, that thick, growling timbre vibrating from where McCree’s lips are pressed to him all the way through him, from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his toes to the twitching, neglected need between his legs –

There’s one last, rumbling sigh as McCree tucks his head into the crook of Hanzo’s neck and just kisses him once, softly, like he’s saying goodnight. Hanzo holds him there until his breath evens out and he’s certain McCree is asleep, and only then does he allow himself to touch the bruises he can feel like fire burning within him.

\----

The love bites do not go ignored. 

Hanzo stares at himself in every reflection he sees. The bruises are stark against his neck the first morning. They’re low enough that they can be easily covered by a shirt collar or by wearing his hair loose, and he’s grateful when nobody comments on it. But every time he passes a mirror or a window, he stops and brushes his hair back, or pulls the collar of his shirt aside, and stares. His fingers ghost over every one of the marks in turn, each one sending a shiver through him as he remembers those wonderful lips pressed against him, that warm body in his bed, the tongue and the teeth and Jesse’s breath in his ear –

He has to force himself to look away every time, to continue on his way. They mean nothing to McCree, even if they mean so much to him. 

They fade after a few days. Hanzo reasons that it is probably for the best, but he cannot deny the disappointment that sweeps through him when he realizes that his only reminder of that contact is gone.

\----

They are not gone long.

The knock on his door is almost expected at this point, so when he hears it, Hanzo’s heart beats hopeful against his ribcage. He nearly runs to the door to help McCree in, putting an arm to his back to keep him steady (that’s all he’ll tell himself it is) and helping him undress. It’s become routine – after one time McCree managed to get himself stuck in his shirt as he stripped for bed, Hanzo has taken it upon himself to help him tug off his clothing (he is simply helping a friend get comfortable. There is nothing more to it than that). McCree has tried to do the same now, once or twice, but he is more hindrance than help; so, while Hanzo’s hands linger on McCree’s back or arms as he slides a shirt up and over him, he makes sure McCree does nothing more than watch him as he strips himself.

Modesty has never been his strong suit.

He slides each side of the button-up shirt off of McCree’s arms slowly, pretending he is more interested in making sure the shirt does not wrinkle than in the shiver his fingertips running across skin and metal elicit. McCree looks down at him with a lazy, unguarded smile. “Thanks, sugar.” 

“It is no trouble,” he lies. Every time he does this, Hanzo finds it harder not to go further, not to tear his clothes off and throw them aside, not to grab the cowboy by the shoulders and pull him down into a bruising kiss. But, like every time before this, he doesn’t, and just crawls into bed. McCree follows wordlessly and pulls Hanzo to him. This time, hoping against hope, Hanzo does not try to turn away, and lies facing McCree. 

McCree smiles at him and his heart stops. “Well, would y’look at that…”

Hanzo can feel something move from his shoulder to the nape of his neck and belatedly realizes it’s McCree’s hands when cold metal fingers run through the hair there. He shivers but can’t look away from McCree’s eyes, heavily-lidded and glazed over, like they were last time, until they are forced from his line of sight as the cowboy ducks his head and begins to suckle at the skin just below Hanzo’s ear. Hanzo lets out a shaky breath, half-moaning, and involuntarily shuffles closer to McCree. 

“Mmh…” The sound pulses through Hanzo as McCree makes it, then pulls back to press a kiss to the fresh bruise that is surely forming. He kisses below it then – once, twice – and bites down to start another. “Y’taste good…” 

Hanzo’s chest heaves as he fights to force air back into his lungs. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think of something to distract him from that sinful mouth on him, the scent of whiskey and spice clinging to McCree, the friction of legs tangling together, the warm breath puffing in short bursts wherever McCree kisses and sucks… He’s hard now, the attempts at fighting off this arousal futile from the beginning. He wonders if McCree can feel it. Probably, if the low chuckle is any indication. 

“You are drunk.” McCree stills, but does not respond, does not pull away. Hanzo tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter. McCree will fall asleep soon, in the middle of leaving a hickey, and he won’t remember this in the morning. He never does.

\----

The final time McCree comes to his room drunk, he catches Hanzo drinking too.

It is a mere two days after the last time he was here, so the marks he had left have not had time to fade yet. Hanzo catches his reflection in a mirror as McCree starts to take off his clothes and he stares at the bites, still bold. He touches one with the faintest trace of a smile. It doesn’t hurt anymore, but the touch sends another sensation entirely shooting through him anyway. The warmth that stirs in him is only amplified by the sake he sips.

McCree pauses in his stripping to stare over at Hanzo as he raises the glass to his lips again. Hanzo glances at him out of the corner of his eye and shrugs. “You are not the only one who enjoys his drinking,” he states simply. McCree huffs a laugh and saunters over, shirt half-unbuttoned. He reaches out to touch the back of his knuckle to one of the bruises on Hanzo’s neck, the comment completely ignored. 

“…Did I do that?” he whispers, too close to be comfortable, but never, never close enough. 

Hanzo places the sake back down onto the table, closes his eyes, and nods. He doesn’t know why, but he steps back, out of McCree’s touch, away from the one thing he wants the most, back toward his bed. Something feels different this time. Perhaps it is that he is also feeling tipsy. He lets the feeling guide him. “Yes. You did.” 

McCree follows as if on a leash, unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way and tossing it to the floor in a heap. Hanzo sits down on the edge of his bed. He takes his own shirt off, slowly, eyes not leaving McCree’s face. A thrill shoots through him as McCree licks his lips. He wants to taste them, but refrains. Hanzo has no doubt in his mind that those lips will be on him again soon anyway, sucking more love bites into his neck for him to admire later. More meaningless marks for Hanzo to fawn over when he thinks nobody is paying attention.

He’s come to love them despite how lonely they make him feel. Because meaningless or not, this contact is still something. 

McCree stares as Hanzo begins to shuffle out of his sweatpants. His breathing is unusually labored. “Can I…?”

“Come here.” It’s unusual for McCree to ask, but Hanzo has long since accepted the inevitability that they will end up in bed together on nights like this, when McCree is too drunk to think about what he is doing or to remember it in the morning. What does his permission or invitation matter when McCree will fall in beside him anyway? 

McCree shimmies clumsily out of his pants and Hanzo tries to pretend he is unaffected by how close the man is to him and where he sits on the edge of the bed. He is close enough to touch. To kiss. He licks his dry lips and backs up to allow McCree some space to crawl onto the bed with him.

The cowboy straddles his hips and Hanzo lies back, pulling McCree down over top of him. The sheets are pulled over them and Hanzo tangles a hand in McCree’s hair to hold him to his chest. It is more forward than he usually is, but Hanzo will take what he can get while he can, drunk or not. 

It’s not like McCree will remember. 

He feels eyelashes flutter against his collarbone as McCree closes his eyes. Hanzo closes his, too, and waits.

He does not wait long. McCree tilts his head upward, beard scratching against Hanzo’s chest as he does. It’s uncomfortable but so, so welcome. Kisses are pressed at the base of his throat: one, two, three. Hanzo sighs and his fingers tighten in messy brown locks. McCree bites, sucks. Hanzo moans.

“Mm. Like that, don’tcha?” McCree’s voice is thick with alcohol and low with what Hanzo might have assumed under any other circumstances to be desire. Maybe it is. He tries not to think about it. “Like it when I do that… y’make the prettiest noises when I do…” 

He moves to another spot, where neck meets shoulder this time, and bites down again. “C’mon, Hanzo,” he whispers. His breath tickles. “Tell me. Wanna hear y’say it. You like it when I kiss ya like this, don’tcha?”

He bites down again and Hanzo shudders. He pulls breath in through his teeth with a hiss, and the “Yesss” of pleasure is torn from him without his awareness. This seems to spur McCree on further, as he pulls back and trails up Hanzo’s neck, kissing and nipping and stopping every few seconds to suck another bruise as he goes. 

He reaches Hanzo’s jaw and kisses along it. “Wanted this for a long time,” he mumbles. A hand presses against Hanzo’s other cheek and forces the archer to look at him. McCree’s eyes are only half-open, his lips parted as if he can’t decide if he wants to speak or not. His face is flushed and his pupils are wide. He looks just like he did that first night Hanzo turned to face him in bed, but one thing is different. He looks like he wants more. He looks as if he’s hungry. 

It is that thought that makes Hanzo surge forward, closing the gap between them and pressing their lips together. 

McCree moans into Hanzo’s mouth, parting his lips to push his tongue past them and prod at Hanzo’s. Hanzo lets him in eagerly. Their teeth clack together uncomfortably once or twice, but neither of them can bring themselves to care, can’t bring themselves to stop the wonderful amazing addicting slide of tongues and lips as they press against each other, hands in hair and pulling closer, closer. 

McCree pulls back first, just to suck in a short breath of air before he’s back on Hanzo, babbling between quick, feverish kisses. “Hanzo.” A kiss. “Yeah, yes, yes…” Another kiss. “Wanted this.” A bite. “Wanted you.” A kiss. “So bad, so long –”

“Shh.” Another kiss. “You’re drunk.” A tug of the hair and a kiss to McCree’s jaw. “I don’t care.” He’s past caring; he simply wants. “I have wanted this too.” Kiss, kiss, kiss, all the way up to McCree’s ear. A bite. “So much.” 

“Hanzo –”

“Shh.” He pulls back and presses another kiss to McCree’s lips. “Not now. Not while you are drunk.” He never wants this to stop, but he’s sober enough to know better. Unlike some. “Tomorrow.”

This gives McCree pause. His brow furrows, and the flicker of sadness and disappointment that crosses his face almost hurts. He wants to kiss that worry away. “Will y’be here then?” he asks. He blinks slowly and settles down, resting his head on Hanzo’s chest again. That is probably the end of the kissing for the night. A relief, yes, but more disappointing than the archer would like to admit. “You’re never here when I wake up. Stay tonight?” his voice is low, pleading. Hanzo buries his face in McCree’s hair and sighs. 

“I will stay,” he promises. He feels McCree’s smile against his skin. 

“A’right. Good. Night, Hanzo.” 

“Good night, Jesse.” 

\----

When McCree wakes up in the morning, Hanzo is there, just as promised. He opens his eyes to see the archer staring down at him fondly, and smiles back up at him. “Well, howdy, sugar.” 

A scoff, but Hanzo is still grinning. “Howdy,” he says back, and he can hardly hold back his laughter at how ridiculous the word sounds coming from his own lips. McCree can’t hold it back, and he barks one loud, short laugh as he sits up. 

“Now that’s what I like to wake up to,” he says, and reaches over to ruffle Hanzo’s sleep-mussed hair. The archer bats his hand away. 

They simply sit there a moment, McCree gazing at Hanzo and Hanzo looking anywhere but at him. The smile fades slowly and his expression turns pensive as he contemplates the previous night. He touches one of the fresher marks on his neck subconsciously. “Do you…” He swallows and takes a breath, tries to convince himself he isn’t afraid of the answer he is about to hear. “Do you remember anything?” 

McCree reaches for the hand tangled in the sheets, the one not hovering over the cluster of love bites on his neck. He laces their fingers together and squeezes. “Yeah. Every bit of it, darlin’.” 

Hanzo swallows and allows the corner of his mouth to twitch up into half of a smile. McCree grins at him and raises the hand he holds to his lips to kiss the knuckles. “Do you?”

“Of course. I remember every time.” 

“Oh, what, you think I don’t?”

Hanzo sits ramrod straight and his head practically whips around so he can stare McCree dead in the eye. The beginnings of anger show in the crinkle of the lines at Hanzo’s eyes. McCree lets go of his hand and holds his own up in a gesture of defense. “Hey, whoa there! Just a joke! I didn’t remember anything!” A pause. “Well. Not the first few times. Just remember wakin’ up in your bed a couple times and wonderin’ how I got there. Then… well, you didn’t exactly send me packin’, so I figured I could… get away with it.” 

His voice gets lighter and weaker the longer he goes on, the longer Hanzo glares. Eventually all that’s left is a sheepish smile, and Hanzo deflates. “Why did you not just tell me?” 

McCree shrugs. “I dunno. You know you ain’t the most approachable guy at times – lemme finish!” He holds up his hands again when Hanzo opens his mouth to protest. “Wasn’t sure you liked me like that! And I didn’t wanna say nothin’ about it in case! It was much easier just actin’ like I didn’t know what I was doin’. Just needed a bit of liquid courage to give me that push.”

Hanzo eyes the long-forgotten sake on his table for a moment, then turns his gaze on McCree again. It’s softer now, understanding. He is certain that without some of his own liquid courage, they would not be in this position now. He can hardly hold it against the man. 

His gaze turns sly as he reaches over to cup McCree’s chin in his hand. “And now?” 

“Now?” 

“Neither of us is drunk now. Do you still need that push, or am I going to have to kiss you first?”

Hanzo doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone smile so brightly in his life. 

\----

The next time McCree comes to Hanzo’s door, he isn’t drunk at all.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this and are interested in seeing more or even just having a chat, feel free to contact and/or follow me on twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r), my [personal tumblr](http://therealhousewivesofhyrule.tumblr.com/), or if you're just interested in my Overwatch stuff then at my [Overwatch sideblog](http://naptimefornaughtyrobots.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I also have a [writing blog](https://intim3ate.tumblr.com) where I post progress, WIPs, and take requests. Please check that out if you'd like to see more!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and supporting me. ♥


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